been my dear,” Duff said, calmer now he'd won his point.
"I hope if you ever make a mistake, those you offend will be more forgiving.” Jocasta spun on her heel and marched out, head held high but frail body shaking.
Loath though she was to admit it, Sinhalese even felt a sneaking respect. Jocasta might have lost the argument, but at least she had stood up to her father.
"Let me worry about those I offend!” he shouted at her retreating back.
When she had gone Sinhalese gnawed at her finger while Duff chuckled to himself and toyed with the spells. At last, buoyed by Jocasta's example, she expressed her anxiety about the cost of the investigation—and her father's response sent her scurrying to her room and the massage from Task.
* * * *
"Welcome to beyond the edge of the world,” Jocasta muttered sardonically, blinking in the morning sun. Overhead, delta wings struggled for lift in the early thermals. The nearest one was so low that Jocasta could see the pilot's legs move as he wrestled his craft aloft.
The mountain dominated the smaller hills around it. The whole area was hilly and uneven, the terrain a series of twisting switchbacks. Flat-topped, the mountain was mostly grassland with a few scattered shrubs.
The Quelforn Arcology covered the whole of the western side, an immense ziggurat so distended it almost lost its pyramidal shape. Within it and other arcologies scattered around the world were the last of the second wave of humanity, dreaming their lives away in cyberworlds from which they never needed to emerge. They had a whole universe to explore without ever leaving their support capsules.
Around the arcologies a cult had grown, extensions added like fungi on the sides of a tree. Jocasta loathed them. “They're the last refuge of the hidebound technophiles, living in terror of anything that isn't filtered and processed.” She sniffed. “They think this is the edge of the world. I suppose it is for them.” With the spellhound beside her, she left the tube station in one of the domes to stroll through a broad, sterile concourse while looking for an exit.
Eventually they found sliding doors operated by pressure on a panel, leading into a small airlock. The inside of the airlock was filthy, and Jocasta guessed no one had opened the doors in years. It was a stark contrast to the sterile efficiency of the concourse.
By the time they'd circled the other domes and reached the top, the deltas were gliding much more freely.
Jocasta was hot and thirsty and even grimier than the night before, when they had arrived on the skimmer at the harbour. She remembered ruefully that she hadn't tidied the apartment.
The air this high was appreciably thinner, and when she looked back over the way they'd come she realised they'd been so busy putting one foot in front of the other they hadn't given any thought to how far they had travelled nor how far they still had to go.
Behind them to the western side, the land was semi-desert, a harsh mixture of reds and browns and burnt orange, the looming arcology blighting the harsh beauty of the landscape.
To the east they looked out over grassy hills to savannah. Then they descended toward it at a pace that risked sprained or broken ankles. Nearby, tractors ploughed fields, and ahead lay a neat and compact little town.
The town was full of detached and semidetached houses, peppered with occasional domes. Each was surrounded by gardens where trees, shrubs, and flowers grew profusely, suggesting regular watering. The houses grew more tightly packed toward the middle of the town and at the far end were absolutely crammed together.
The town was cute. There was no other description for it, Jocasta decided. It seemed to her that much of the world now sought to ape an earlier age, looking for an echo of an earlier, more innocent time, in this case when community formed a defence against strangers. Jocasta was deeply sceptical of rustic charm and suspected she was romanticising, but
"I hope if you ever make a mistake, those you offend will be more forgiving.” Jocasta spun on her heel and marched out, head held high but frail body shaking.
Loath though she was to admit it, Sinhalese even felt a sneaking respect. Jocasta might have lost the argument, but at least she had stood up to her father.
"Let me worry about those I offend!” he shouted at her retreating back.
When she had gone Sinhalese gnawed at her finger while Duff chuckled to himself and toyed with the spells. At last, buoyed by Jocasta's example, she expressed her anxiety about the cost of the investigation—and her father's response sent her scurrying to her room and the massage from Task.
* * * *
"Welcome to beyond the edge of the world,” Jocasta muttered sardonically, blinking in the morning sun. Overhead, delta wings struggled for lift in the early thermals. The nearest one was so low that Jocasta could see the pilot's legs move as he wrestled his craft aloft.
The mountain dominated the smaller hills around it. The whole area was hilly and uneven, the terrain a series of twisting switchbacks. Flat-topped, the mountain was mostly grassland with a few scattered shrubs.
The Quelforn Arcology covered the whole of the western side, an immense ziggurat so distended it almost lost its pyramidal shape. Within it and other arcologies scattered around the world were the last of the second wave of humanity, dreaming their lives away in cyberworlds from which they never needed to emerge. They had a whole universe to explore without ever leaving their support capsules.
Around the arcologies a cult had grown, extensions added like fungi on the sides of a tree. Jocasta loathed them. “They're the last refuge of the hidebound technophiles, living in terror of anything that isn't filtered and processed.” She sniffed. “They think this is the edge of the world. I suppose it is for them.” With the spellhound beside her, she left the tube station in one of the domes to stroll through a broad, sterile concourse while looking for an exit.
Eventually they found sliding doors operated by pressure on a panel, leading into a small airlock. The inside of the airlock was filthy, and Jocasta guessed no one had opened the doors in years. It was a stark contrast to the sterile efficiency of the concourse.
By the time they'd circled the other domes and reached the top, the deltas were gliding much more freely.
Jocasta was hot and thirsty and even grimier than the night before, when they had arrived on the skimmer at the harbour. She remembered ruefully that she hadn't tidied the apartment.
The air this high was appreciably thinner, and when she looked back over the way they'd come she realised they'd been so busy putting one foot in front of the other they hadn't given any thought to how far they had travelled nor how far they still had to go.
Behind them to the western side, the land was semi-desert, a harsh mixture of reds and browns and burnt orange, the looming arcology blighting the harsh beauty of the landscape.
To the east they looked out over grassy hills to savannah. Then they descended toward it at a pace that risked sprained or broken ankles. Nearby, tractors ploughed fields, and ahead lay a neat and compact little town.
The town was full of detached and semidetached houses, peppered with occasional domes. Each was surrounded by gardens where trees, shrubs, and flowers grew profusely, suggesting regular watering. The houses grew more tightly packed toward the middle of the town and at the far end were absolutely crammed together.
The town was cute. There was no other description for it, Jocasta decided. It seemed to her that much of the world now sought to ape an earlier age, looking for an echo of an earlier, more innocent time, in this case when community formed a defence against strangers. Jocasta was deeply sceptical of rustic charm and suspected she was romanticising, but
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